


Cobblestone Flowers

by MapleMooseMuffin



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Developing Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Friends to Lovers, Grief, Mild Angst, Minor Character Death, Post-Time Skip, What Are We, and sex, no beta we die like Glenn, they talk briefly about masturbation, you played blue lions you know what happens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22646908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleMooseMuffin/pseuds/MapleMooseMuffin
Summary: One night on the road, Ingrid comes to visit Dorothea's tent.Dorothea waves her away. “There’s nothing to forgive, Inga. It’s been years, like you said. I wouldn’t have expected you to hold out for a commoner girl on the other side of the war.” She chuckles, self-depreciating, and stares down at her tea, trying to will away the burn she feels just above her heart.“Oh, that’s. That isn’t what I meant, Dorothea. I was referring to your forgiving me for being selfish, at the start of this conversation.” Her voice goes quieter again, the socially awkward stiffness still there. It’s enough to make Dorothea lift her head and really look her over.Ingrid is still blushing, not quite meeting Dorothea’s eyes as she fidgets with the rim of her teacup. She looks like she’s trying to find the right words to say something, mouth parted just the tiniest bit on a sentence she hasn’t started. And then her words sink in, and Dorothea blinks, swallowing against the shudder in her chest.“What are you saying, then?”
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51





	1. Sunflower Seeds

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends.
> 
> So. You ever sit down on the couch and then get slapped in the brain with a plot hammer?  
> This idea came to me at 9pm and now it's almost 2am and what I'm posting isn't even everything I thought of but I'm tired and I have to be up in the morning. 
> 
> Also I just learned the sunflower is a symbol of adoration which is very accurate to this fic.
> 
> Enjoy!~

The sounds of camp have settled down into a softer din, most gathering themselves up from the seats by the campfire after an hour or two of post dinner chatter and turning in behind patched tent flaps to try for a few hours rest before the morning’s long march. Dorothea is already in her own small tent, settling a little traveling kettle over a tiny fire to brew a blend that may keep the nightmares at bay.

She’s not really all that cut out for war, she doesn’t think. Sure she can wield a sword and bring the fire in her heart out to the tips of her fingers, slice the air with lightning if she focuses, but those have always felt like instruments of necessity. With as much planning they put into this campaign, it doesn’t matter that on the battlefield it’s kill or be killed – the war itself is too laden with intent. The thorns on a rose are meant to protect the flower herself from being snapped up by greedy hands, not for people to grab her by the bud and whip her lashing stem at their foes.

That’s not quite a fair analogy, though. No one is making her do this. The professor even mentioned she could stay back, guard the monastery if she wanted. Not have to face her former classmates – her _friends_ – on the field when they make their way over the bridge and down toward Enbarr. But she came.

She wants the fighting to end, but for peace to come they must push through a few battles more. Dorothea will do her part to make that happen.

Tonight, though, she should allow herself some rest. It’s a long trek from Garreg Mach to the Adrestian Empire and it’s bad enough her nightmares bite into her evening rest. She doesn’t need to work herself up just before bed, too. She takes a deep breath, lets all the day’s anxiety swell up in her chest, and imagines casting it out as she sighs long and heavy. It works for stage fright, and for now it’ll work on her wartime nerves, too.

The kettle is just starting to whistle when the flap of her tent flutters under someone’s palm as they come to a stop outside her sleeping area. Dorothea only has to look a moment at the shadow cast against the canvas before she knows who it is, and she smiles.

“You can come in, Ingrid.”

Ingrid clears her throat, probably about to announce herself and caught off by Dorothea’s greeting. She really is too cute. Dorothea makes sure to grab a second cup and settles them both with the kettle on a little cleared spot on the ground.

“Thank you, Dorothea,” Ingrid says and then steps in, ever so polite. It has to be an element of her personality, not simply good breeding. It feels too genuine and sweet to be a formality.

“Come, tell me what brings you here over tea.” Dorothea gestures to the cups and Ingrid comes easily, offering more thanks as she holds her cup still for Dorothea to pour. The scent wafts up in a plume of steam and Ingrid’s eyes widen, looking from the light colored tea to Dorothea.

“Chamomile? It’s one of my favorites.”

Dorothea saves that away in the back of her mind. “I’m glad you approve then!” She settles the kettle and takes a careful sip. A shame she doesn’t have any treats to offer Ingrid. “I’m certainly happy to have a private chat with you, Inga, but I don’t think it’s much like you to come out this late when we’re on a march. Is everything alright?”

Ingrid sighs and something like irritation flashes in her beautiful eyes. Dorothea had guessed nightmares or unease, but she throws that out immediately. This looks more like… “It’s Sylvain.”

“Ah.” That makes sense. When isn’t he making headaches for someone, honestly? “What’s he gotten himself into this time? Or should I say, who?”

The irritation deepens in Ingrid’s face. “Yes, you should. Though if you would like to know, you need only come to my tent and guess from the voices cutting through the night air.”

Dorothea scowls on her behalf. “Absolutely no courtesy.” Ingrid hums and agreement and sips her tea. “Well, you’re more than welcome to stay here where it is quiet and calming for as along as you like. I certainly don’t mind your company. But if you want, we can also go to the professor together and see if she can make him stop. Or maybe I could give him a little shock myself.” She settles her teacup down in front of her and twirls her fingers menacingly in the air.

It’s meant to win a laugh, or at least a little exasperated sigh, but Ingrid just shakes her head. “No, I don’t think I have the energy to deal with the chaos that would cause. I just wish he wouldn’t do this in _camp_ when our tents are so close together. I had to tune them out across half of camp on my walk over here.”

Admittedly that’s a little impressive, either on Sylvain’s part or on the part of his companion’s acting skills. Dorothea would be lying if she said she hadn’t wondered at least once whether Sylvain was actually any good in bed, but maybe some mysteries are better left unsolved.

Ingrid takes a long drink from her cup, looking ever so slightly less miserable after it’s settled. There’s too much tension in her shoulders and the way she sits, body stiff and eyes worn out. Dorothea’s heart aches a little watching such a beautiful, strong woman look so exhausted and stressed out. This is about more than Sylvain’s antics, she thinks. Something else has her dearest friend at the end of her rope.

“What’s wrong, Inga?”

Ingrid lets out a quiet sigh and stares down into her cup. “Many things. It isn’t just Sylvain, though I am upset with him. But it’s also Felix, the way he’s been acting toward all of us.” She looks up and her eyes are so wide it’s almost like she’s pleading with Dorothea. “He acts as though he doesn’t trust any of us to handle ourselves, despite us being five years deep into this war. The only people he doesn’t hover around and bark orders at are his own father, whom he hardly acknowledges, and His Highness, whom he openly insults.

“And all the while His Highness hardly speaks, unless it is to make wild demands or threats. I’ve never seen him like this before. I can’t help but thinking it’s our fault, somehow. If we’d searched harder for him, if we’d found him sooner, maybe we could have saved him from this sickness that’s taken him…”

Her voice trails quieter. Dorothea reaches out a gentle hand to settle on Ingrid’s knee and squeezes, seeing the wetness at the edges of her eyes. Ingrid sniffles sharply and drags her palms over her eyes, shaking her head after and slumping down a little into herself. She looks a bit better, some of the tension eased out even as she mumbles, “I’m sorry. I’m just a bit frustrated.”

“You’re right to be,” Dorothea assures her. Ingrid smiles, something tiny and half felt, but still grateful. The ache in Dorothea’s chest flares sharper. Her hands itch to cup Ingrid’s soft cheeks, to brush through her hair. Instead she gives Ingrid’s knee another gentle squeeze. “We are all under a lot of stress right now – this whole war is so exhausting. But it doesn’t make you weak to feel that weight against you. I certainly do.”

Ingrid shifts a breadth closer, eyes rounding out with a glimmer of guilt that makes Dorothea want to snatch her words back immediately.

“I am so sorry, Dorothea. I hadn’t even stopped to consider how you may be feeling. We’re fighting your country, and I’m complaining about Sylvain’s womanizing. That was deeply unfair of me.”

The only thing unfair here is how kissable Ingrid looks even when she’s apologizing for things she shouldn’t be. Dorothea longs to lure back that tiny smile and see Ingrid bloom with her usual radiance. She’s normally a sunflower sprung up past the cobblestone, sturdy and stunning and sure of herself and her goals. This guilt and grief does not suit her, even if she wears it well.

“You haven’t done anything wrong. Just because I have troubles doesn’t mean yours don’t matter. And despite my being raised there, I’m not all that attached to the Empire.” She shrugs one shoulder and tosses a bit of hair from her face. “I did grow up in Enbarr, but it was on the streets, as an orphan. I don’t have any family to feel attached to there, aside from Manuela, and she’s here with us. I mean… It is true that we may face my old classmates. I _am_ afraid of that. I don’t want to watch anyone die, and certainly not anyone I care about. But.”

She straightens, drawing her hand back to her own lap and taking in a deep breath. It takes a moment to center herself, but once she finds it her resolve holds firm. With it she finds the strength to meet Ingrid’s eyes. Ingrid’s gaze is firm in kind.

“I made my decision in coming back to Garreg Mach and joining the Kingdom Army. I knew what it meant and I didn’t just do it because I’d joined the Blue Lions class. I didn’t even do it because of my feelings for you.”

Ingrid flushes, so bright and rosy against her pale skin. Dorothea can feel soft heat in her own face, but she smiles and laughs, soft and gentle.

“I’m sorry, that was a bit rude of me, huh? I meant it, but I also understand that was a while ago. You and I, I mean. I joined this war for myself and my beliefs, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t glad you ended up on the same side as me.”

“I, I thank you,” Ingrid says, stiff and awkward but still so sweet. A girl like her can even make a love rejection feel gentle and almost painless. Almost. “For your honesty, and your forgiveness.”

Dorothea waves her away. “There’s nothing to forgive, Inga. It’s been years, like you said. I wouldn’t have expected you to hold out for a commoner girl on the other side of the war.” She chuckles, self-depreciating, and stares down at her tea, trying to will away the burn she feels just above her heart.

“Oh, that’s. That isn’t what I meant, Dorothea. I was referring to your forgiving me for being selfish, at the start of this conversation.” Her voice goes quieter again, the socially awkward stiffness still there. It’s enough to make Dorothea lift her head and really look her over.

Ingrid is still blushing, not quite meeting Dorothea’s eyes as she fidgets with the rim of her teacup. She looks like she’s trying to find the right words to say something, mouth parted just the tiniest bit on a sentence she hasn’t started. And then her words sink in, and Dorothea blinks, swallowing against the shudder in her chest.

“What are you saying, then?” she prompts gently. Even dips her head to try and catch Ingrid’s gaze.

Ingrid takes a slow breath in and straightens again. Her eyes find Dorothea’s, burning with her own resolve, and this she wears far more beautifully than the guilt from before.

“I mean to say there hasn’t been anyone else. I never let go of my feelings for you.”

She could kill a woman, saying things that steal breath away so completely. It’s a wonder Dorothea doesn’t swoon here and now like a heroine on stage. And still Ingrid has more to say.

“In fact, I found that being away for so long helped me to better sort though my feelings and come to terms with them. To understand myself, and the longing I felt for you.” She settles a hand over her heart, curling it into a little fist that could just as easily hold Dorothea’s now that she’s stolen it so soundly.

“Oh, Ingrid,” is all Dorothea can breathe for a moment. How can she sit here so poised and say things like this? How could she _not_ have said anything, when it’s been months since their reunion at Garreg Mach? “When were you going to tell me?”

“When the war ended, maybe. After all this chaos was over and we had time to be sure. I wouldn’t want us to jump into something only for it to be the heat of the moment, another consequence of war.”

And it’s just unfair how practical this girl is, isn’t it. Dorothea wants to kiss her and scold her in equal measure.

She does neither, and says instead, “That is so very like you,” which earns a mildly confused look from Ingrid but no protest.

Slowly, gently, Dorothea reaches out and takes Ingrid’s hands, simply cupping the backs against her palms and testing the waters. Ingrid doesn’t pull away.

They’re quiet, for a beat. Then softly, Dorothea says, “You know we can’t put all our faith in there being a tomorrow, though.”

Just as softly, Ingrid sighs. “I know.”

They stay there, letting the soft din of night sounds and occasional footsteps past the tent fill the quiet air between them. Dorothea stares down at their hands, tracing her thumbs over the little scars Ingrid has accumulated over the course of the war. Little nicks and pockmarks, likely from the debris kicked up by those terrifying crest corrupted beasts and their far flung attacks. There’s one that looks like it may have been made by an arrow just narrowly avoided. The thought of Ingrid tumbling off the back of her pegasus while high in flight makes Dorothea’s stomach plummet in fear.

She almost jumps when Ingrid breaks the silence again, a few minutes later.

“Is this alright?”

Dorothea looks up at her. She tugs her lip between her teeth, then releases, like she’s caught herself in the act and is trying not to look nervous. Dorothea wants to hug her tight to her chest and shield her from the world. In reality, though, it’s more likely Ingrid would be her shield, and not the other way around.

“Your hiding out here with me away from Sylvain? Or our shared feelings for one another?”

To that, Ingrid tilts her head to the side, frowning just a little. “Well, to be honest, a little of both. I know he’s our friend, but he’s also a bit of a mess.”

Dorothea can’t help but laugh. She certainly isn’t wrong. But still, “Aren’t we all a little bit of a mess right now? All of Fódlan is in chaos, after all. Now don’t get me wrong, I do agree that he’s being wildly inconsiderate, but I wouldn’t hold it against him if he just wants some semblance of romance once and a while. Even if it’s all façades.”

Ingrid’s frown twists deeper, a little furrow settling between her brows. “How in the Goddess’s name is that romantic?”

Which, fair enough, give Sylvain’s opinion on women in general. Dorothea wishes she could make him see that some of it really is just in his own head. It took her a while to realize the same about her opinion of nobility, though, so she has hope for him yet.

“Well, the principle is romantic at least. There isn’t much room in wartime to find a lasting connection, but they can suspend their disbelief for a night or two.”

Ingrid shakes her head, ribbons bouncing against her braids with the motion. “No, I mean. Sex. In general.”

Now it’s Dorothea’s turn to frown. She straightens, pulling back just a little. “What do you mean?”

The air shifts, heavy and awkward once again. Ingrid makes a face like she’s just read something she can’t make heads or tails of, and the blush from earlier returns with a fiery vengeance, creeping down her neck and up over the ridges of her ears.

“Is sex supposed to be romantic?” She sounds almost scandalized at the thought.

Dorothea opens her mouth but pauses, finding the words caught in her throat as her mind flits between saying, ‘it depends on the sex,’ and demanding to know just who it was that made Ingrid think it could be anything but. In the end her protective side wins out and a different sort of fire burns in her chest.

“Just who has taken you to bed, my dear?” That anyone could treat Ingrid with something other than a worshipful hand (or mouth) is outrageous.

More so outrageous, though, is Ingrid’s answer. “No one!”

“Not one person, ever? But you’re so beautiful! Anyone with eyes would want you!”

“I already told you, Dorothea,” Ingrid says, sounding both annoyed and flustered, “there was no one but you, after Glenn. And we were certainly too young, then.”

Dorothea sighs and squeezes Ingrid’s hands. Of course, she did say that. “It’s the same for me,” she admits. “I haven’t bedded anyone since we left the monastery. But, to answer your question, yes, it can be quite romantic. The crux of romance, even, especially in literature.”

“I just don’t see how that could be.” Ingrid shakes her head again. “I’ve always seen it as a way to break stress and find relief from the day’s tension. Or something to help coax sleep.”

And doesn’t that make sense. Such a practical woman, Ingrid is, efficient and meticulous. “So you’re one of those girls who’s utilitarian in touching herself,” Dorothea can’t help saying.

She regrets it immediately, because Ingrid tugs her hands back, mouth dropping open in what is definitely a scandalized expression now. Dorothea can almost feel the heat flowing off her vibrantly blushing face.

“Dorothea!” she practically yelps. Dorothea flushes herself.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think before I opened my mouth! I forgot that would be invasive to say.”

“Forgot?!” She’s definitely squeaking. Dorothea winces.

“Well, you have to understand. In the opera we’re a lot… looser, with our conversation topics. It’s just that we’re all so close, and when you actively change costumes in front of your co-stars things like nudity and even sex stop being taboo conversations. And, well. You’ve met Manuela. I wasn’t trying to make you feel uncomfortable or be lecherous, I swear.”

Ingrid’s mouth draws tight and Dorothea mentally kicks herself. One would think she’d have learned by now to watch her tongue, but here she is, acting a fool in front of the girl she loves.

“We can change the subject,” she offers.

“Well, it’s…” Ingrid swallows, glances away for a moment and then back, still blushing but looking less horrified, at least. “I’m not offended, exactly. I just. I certainly wasn’t expecting you to say such a thing.”

“If it helps, I meant nothing by it,” Dorothea says, offering up her palms in a submitting gesture. “No judgement or anything of the kind. It was just an observation.”

“I suppose you aren’t… wrong.”

Dorothea offers her what she hopes is a reassuring smile, and slowly the awkward tension drains back out of the air. They’re both still blushing, but at least now they can talk without cringing in on themselves.

“I’m just not all that used to speaking about matters like this,” Ingrid confesses. Dorothea nods for her to go on. “I’m the only daughter in my family, and I’m obviously not going to speak about this with Felix or Sylvain.”

The thought is as laughable as it is frightening. “I imagine Felix would be at a complete loss for what you were even talking about – the only romance he’s ever had has been between himself and that Sword of Zoltan he cherishes so much.” Ingrid giggles at that. The sound has Dorothea’s heart fluttering all over again. “As for Sylvain, I’d be more afraid he’d want to swap stories, Goddess forbid.”

“I can’t even stomach the thought of that,” Ingrid groans. Dorothea snickers. “I will admit, though, it feels… nice. To have another woman to talk to about this sort of thing with. And to be able to ask some of my more naïve questions…”

Her gaze drifts back to her cup, fingers tracing the sides while the last of her blush still simmers across her face. Dorothea doesn’t miss the tiny smile tucked in the corner of her mouth, sweet and soft and heavenly. Again she thinks to kiss her, and again resists.

“Well, at the risk of making myself sound irreputable, I’d say I’m probably fairly equipped to answer most questions you’d have, there.”

Ingrid looks up then and smiles brighter, something wide and kind and warm that Dorothea could just melt into. Is it any wonder she fell for this beautiful, powerful woman? She could write sonnets and solos about her, if given the time. One day she likely will.

“Thank you, Dorothea. Truly. Though, maybe I’ll save my questions for another night. I think I’ve had enough embarrassment and sexual content for one evening.”

“Understandable.” Dorothea smiles back, though she can’t hope to match Ingrid’s radiance. “Speaking of that, you are welcome to sleep in my tent tonight if you want. I have spare clothes if you need them,” – because Ingrid is still dressed in her pretty Pegasus knight’s uniform, armor and all – “and there’s plenty of room in my bedroll.”

The look that crosses Ingrid’s face is undecipherable, something deepening her eyes and tipping her lips down into the slightest of frowns. Dorothea reaches out to take her hands again and draw her attention.

“I mean nothing by it, I promise. Just friendly. We both need rest before tomorrow and you won’t get it back in your tent.”

“People may talk,” Ingrid says lowly.

Is that what she’s worried about? It’s hard to know what to make of that, and it settles like a burr in Dorothea’s chest even as she tries to ignore it.

“Well,” she says briskly, “when we tell them you slept here because of Sylvain, no one will think twice.”

That gets Ingrid to smile again. Goddess, Dorothea would do anything to make her smile.

“True enough. Alright, I’ll accept your hospitality.” She even gives the slightest of bows, still holding Dorothea’s hands and sitting across the floor from her. She’s too cute. “Though I do have one more question for you…”

“Anything, Inga.”

“Our conversation tonight…” Dorothea’s stomach churns, her breath catching. “What does it mean for us, going forward.”

What can she say, when Ingrid is afraid of others talking? When she’s been so in love with her sunflower since their school days and she isn’t sure what it is Ingrid is expecting, or what she would want? Does this feel too soon to her, with her confession drawn out before she’d been planning to make it? And that little _maybe_ at the end, _When the war ended, maybe_. Doesn’t that mean maybe not?

“It. It means as much or as little as you want, Ingrid.” Dorothea tries to keep her tone light, her smile warm and gentle, to hide the way her heart is hammering in her chest. “It’s up to us to decide that.”

Ingrid considers it, sitting quiet and thoughtful for far too long. Dorothea hopes she can’t hear the way her pulse thunders in her chest, hopes she won’t feel her hands shaking as the blood rushes through her veins. She hasn’t been so close to something she wanted so bad since she was taking the entrance exams for Garreg Mach.

“I think I’d like some time to think on it,” Ingrid says soft, like an apology.

Dorothea swallows against her dry mouth and nods. When she trusts herself to speak it’s gentle and nearly a whisper. “Take as long as you need.”

“Thank you.”

They finish the last of their tea and change into bedclothes quietly, only fragments of conversation breaking out as Dorothea hands Ingrid some clothes and turns away, waiting for Ingrid to say when she’s finished changing. Slowly Dorothea’s pulse settles again. The nerves remain, but taking some time to think isn’t an outright rejection, and she needs to hold out hope. No matter what Ingrid’s answer is, she will still love her, and they will still be friends. The best friends in all of Fódlan.

Just as they’re stepping to the bedroll, Ingrid stops her with a hand on her arm. Dorothea turns, a question on her lips, until she’s pulled into a tight, warm hug, with all of Ingrid’s strength and love poured into it wordlessly. She sighs like a swooning heroine, tucks a smile into Ingrid’s shoulder, and hugs her back with equal measure.

When sleep takes her, it is peaceful, with visions of a flowering garden and one blooming rose weaved together with the brightest sunflower ever seen.


	2. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war wages on. All things come at a price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very short, but it's been sitting in my files for a while and it feels like it needs to breathe as its own chapter, so here you go.
> 
> Enjoy.~

They kill Ferdie.

The Blue Lions cross the Great Bridge in an unstoppable charge and tear through the Empire and the Alliance’s resistance. Dorothea doesn’t see when it happens, is too busy keeping enemies at bay with her blade and her magic, trying hard not to look at the faces of any of the fallen soldiers and just keep moving. But as Dimitri corners off the last few enemy soldiers, with the professor always in lashing range behind him, Dorothea finally finds him. Crumpled in a heap beside a horse that must have been his, his noble blood pooled out around him and sticking in his hair. His body’s already gone cold, his eyes staring off at the heavy clouds above. She imagines she sees a glimmer of fear in them, frozen in the moment of his death.

Manuela’s the one to find her after the battle ends. Distantly Dorothea hears her approach, but she can’t turn her eyes away from his body. His face. It’s all laid out in front of her and still she can’t seem to understand it. She’ll never speak to him again. Never sing for him, as he once asked her to. Never tease or laugh, or be impressed in all the ways he was different. Vibrant and dedicated. Loyal to a fault. She’d known he’d be fighting for the Empire, but somehow she never realized what that would mean.

Manuela gives a soft, pained sound and joins Dorothea in her heartbroken stupor. It’s a long, silent, aching moment. But working in the infirmary has desensitized the older diva to most of the war’s horrors, and soon enough she gathers her wits and steps closer to him. Dorothea reaches out, almost wanting to stop her as Manuela kneels beside him. She wants to tell her not to disturb his peace, maybe, or maybe she’s afraid that Manuela will end the dazed spell that’s taken over their corner of the battlefield – the bridge – and suddenly it’ll all be real. Her voice gets caught in her throat, then falls away as if Silenced. Gently, Manuela closes Ferdinand’s eyes, and cuts them each a lock of his hair. There won’t be time to bury him.

Ferdie is gone, and the war rages on.

The Blue Lions are not immune to casualty either.

Dorothea stands at the sidelines, an uncomfortable voyeur to the painful mourning of the prince, snapped suddenly back to his senses, and the friends who were raised alongside him. Felix mourns in ways she can’t understand, drawing so far into himself it’s astonishing that anyone can reach him at all. Ingrid and Sylvain are the only two who manage to wring out full sentences from him, sharing looks behind his back when his restlessness takes him to the training field.

The prince orders they retreat to take Fhirdiad. Dorothea can’t help but finger the locket she keeps Ferdinand’s hair in and wonder if he died for nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on twitter [@maplmoosemuffin](https://twitter.com/maplmoosemuffin).
> 
> Stay safe, y'all. <3

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a pwp where Dorothea worships Ingrid but plot happened apparently so here we are. No chapter count because this might end up being standalone but if I get possessed to actually write that smut scene I'll tack it on here. 
> 
> Come yell at me on twitter [@maplmoosemuffin](https://twitter.com/maplmoosemuffin). I'm usually talking about Sylvain, whom I love even though I dis'd him pretty hard here lol
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


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